Doodles at the Sahar Airport

Distraught mothers waving sons goodbye

Harassed men pushing carts loaded with many bags

Sweet-looking, brusque, beautiful hostesses

New mothers holding wonder-eyed babies

The computer professional, knapsack on shoulder

Executives striding confidently, nervously

The confused tourist carrying backpack too large

Painted women whose stilettos make them imposing

Confusion of passports, boarding cards, endless queues

Gun-holding security men in starched uniforms

The strong smell of disinfectant, sanitized food

The airport is where voyages are embarked and disembarked

Not in steamy hot man-o-wars of yore, but

In air-controlled seclusion, and sequestered egos

Where every man and woman is an explorer

Compressing months of travelling into a few hours

And merging people into one palimpsest of cultures.

The Code Coolie

You pretend you are a code warrior, fighting

Battles with the lines of code you are writing;

You carry a back pack to work in the software park,

Dream of being Bill Gates and steering a sports car into the park.

ASP, Java, Oracle, SAP are your fine forte,

Logic, workflows and syntax your areas of comfort;

Your happiness centres on a chicken tandoori,

And a movie in the mall in East side of Andheri.

You will marry a fast-talking high-strung woman,

Happiness will be a short honeymoon to Konkan;

Then fights will start in blessed conjugal-dom

Cries of “Need my space; I need my freedom.”

The U. S. A.’s a happy energetic place for everyone,

But there are immigration officers and mad men with guns;

Then you will have children, one or even two,

And your joys will re-appear over a year or two.

But what of your parents who made you walk upright?

You left them, backpack over shoulder, into the night;

They cry hard tears, “Where’s our child, tell us truly?”

“Have we worked all our lives to beget a Code Coolie?”

Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem

Oh! Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

Holiest of holy cities

Cursed by the Nazarene:

Nameless, faceless,

Besieged, bombed,

Occupied by militias, armies,

It's unbelievable that once

The messiah of peace walked your streets.

Now you are rubble,

Bomb-hit houses

Lying in a mangled haze

Your hospices filled with the dying

Now you show signs of prosperity

But death still waits at your doorsteps.

The Cedars are bereft,

Alleys are filled with twisted steel,

Your people are not given -

A chance to survive, make peace.

Inside you there are enemy streets

Where children fear to walk

Afraid of hidden gunmen.

Will you rise from this debris?

Bring peace to your proud monuments,

And foliate your naked Cedars

With the leaves of verdant summer

In their shades women wouldn’t wail,

Of disappearances, shootings, and ransoms,

Of men who misunderstand the love of God!

To a Reluctant Writer

You can pick meaning off words,

You can paint pictures;

You can laugh at them,

Who laugh at you;

You can mourn

The follies of the unwise.

To write is power,

Of words, thoughts,

Limitless and boundless,

As the sky above and earth below;

You will never be alone

When words churn in your mind.

You can be heartbroken,

And cry and cry;

But a poem would wipe tears,

Puts a smile on your face,

Erase the pain

Of loneliness and love.

So won’t you write?

A letter, a poem, an essay;

We would gladly plunge in its depths,

Smile at its humour,

Relish what pains it took you,

And forgive friendly trespasses.

Anthonybhai's Song

Anthonybhai’s Song

(In Mack English)[1]

Kya, re? Know something, men?

Dis big, big; new, new instrumen’

Mobile phone and internet, wot?

Such confusion really I neva thought.

This pre-paid-post-paid I don’t unnerstan’, please tell,

Anthony’s simply want to know, what the hell,

You are not to be seen only, these days,

And you don’t call, even on Sundays.

I feel you’re going far, far away,

Some fuckin’ Katlik boy’s come your way?

I will break his legs, just you watch,

I won’t let you be an easy catch.

I know pucca you are flirting girl,

It shows in de way your lips curl,

You have no patience only with me,

But for him, that bugger, you’ll bend and curtsey.

“Wot’s my fault?” I aks Fadder Fonseca, he say:

“Son, forget her, forgive and pray

Treasures and eternal life in heaven above

Are your rewards than this worldly grave.”

I say, no, Irene’s my senorita, Fadder,

I don’t want to be treated, no way, like a ladder

Another man to step and take my girl away,

To the holy alter; and then “I do” say.

---

[1] A pidgin dialect spoken by Goans, East Indians, Ango-Indians, and other communities mainly found on the West Coast of India.

Apocalyptic Rain

The Apocalyptic Rain

(Dedicated to: father who died on a rainy day.)

I

The day he dies

The rain murmurs on glass

Through night and day,

Like apocalypse is today, now

It courses down the eaves at 3.30 a.m.

At 4.30 a.m. it’s still trickling
In the hospital courtyard

Thinly

Wetly

Damply

Hungrily

Silently.

At home 
In the dark

We pause to look at the sky

And murmur, “It’ll never end.”

“The rain will take us as did father.”
"Will electricity come?"

We are wondering whether

The food will last

The oil lamp will burn till midnight

Till we sleep the wearied sleep

Of farmers and day labourers
Of those days

When only the rich had electricity.

And in the morning

We wake up in a daze

To hear the rain still pounding

Pitting the stones

Drilling holes into roads

Fearing the worst

The swirling deaths

Washed out homes

That came calling on July 26

The day the skies wept.

II

Once a boy
Skinny
Unprepared
Unaware
Hanging on to straws
Bibliophile

Who, when a rainy symphony plays,

With open book on knees,

Reads “Paradise Lost,”

And dreams of poetic fame

Lost in a haze of innocence

Unprepared

Docile

Ingenuous

Rebellious

Handsome

Ugly

Sensual

Unrefined

Uncouth.

“Will he ever survive this world?”

“Look at him, he is so silent.”

“Why is he so different?”

“How has he become thus?”

They ask
The ones who fail to prepare him
With their love.

III

The dream of trophy girls is now

The tattered cloth of a mendicant,

Stained and threadbare,

Threatening to rend

At the most delicate touch

As rain comes down

On hills and weaving coconut palms

Marble monuments, their treasures plundered.

And the sun-shielded glass
In a city a thousand kilometres away

Reeking of human enslavement

Nomenclature-ed

Numbered

Synergised

Compartmentalised

Ergonomised

Promoted

Demoted

Transferred

Filed

Forgotten.

The rain stops

11.30 a.m.

Just as the pounding in the brain

Ceases.

Make tea

Drink cupful of heat

Satiation

Lay down to rest

Sleep the tired sleep of the lazy

Wake worn out to rain pounding again

Rivulets on glass

Head aching from countless

Confusing dreams.

IV

When we go to fetch his body
From the morgue

The rain comes so thick

That the river Pampa changes course

Marooning the house

He built

Our abode

Of parsimonious money

He made from the pain of my hunger

The house of our deprivation.

As the flotsam recedes

Leaving the ground slushy

In the 1.30 p.m. rain

He is interred
At the family church

At the family graveyard
When the bell tolls mournfully

After the priests and assemblage

Chants

Prays

Sings

Mumbles
Weeps

Dropping mud on his coffin.

He must have heard

The thudding
Soil and stone

Rain

On palm trees

The wind sighing in leaves

The susurration

Of tiny rivulets

Into his new abode.

Felt the wasting

Of a body

Dissipated

Drowned in grief
Alone
Soil to Soil
Earth to Earth
Dreams having flown
In the 4.30 p.m. rain.

The Old Church

The old church –

Thief of the best Sundays of my childhood –

Is dilapidated.

The courtyard is unkempt;

The parsonage is surrounded by weeds;

The Belfry and Vestry need maintenance;

The Alter, I don’t know;

The garden has a few shrunken shrubs;

And, some shriveled betelnut trees;

The trees under which we ate potluck lunch are gone;

So is the Sexton’s wooden cottage.

Yet, there it stands erect;

Having seen Governors, freedom struggles,

Teargas shells, riots,

Deaths, births, weddings, confirmations, and christenings,

Passing by below its arches.

Yes, now when the bells of St. Mary the Virgin toll

A sad funereal message,

I feel like a child again,

Lost in innocence.

What Science Does!

The world is suffering from:

SARS;

H1N1;

Mice Fever;

Bird flu;

Chickengunia;

HCV;

HIV;

Cancer;

TB;

Dengue;

Malaria;

Malnutrition;

Hunger;

And so on and on and on and on….

But science is only obsessed with inventing:

iPad;

iPod;

Android;

3G;

Live video Streaming;

You tube;

Twitter;

Facebook;

MP 3;

Playstations;

Google search;

Tablet computers….

And you say science has advanced?

You say science saves mankind?

Invent some vaccines,

Bring in some new medicines,

Or, is it too much to ask?

For science to do this disagreeable task?

Don’t You Know I Have It in Me

(A song I wrote this morning. Boom, it was there in my mind with lyrics music and all.)

Leave me in peace

I want to be alone

Let the way be clear

Let the silence surround.

I surrender to my loneliness

Life’s battles forgotten

The iron-and-concrete city’s far away

And I lose myself, my agony, my angst, my sanity.....

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Let me to my serenity

The chosen path is long and lonely

I have no bitter memories

Of loves gone wrong.

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

(Written three years after the attack on Bombay in 2008)

I

Night of 26/11

Lest we forget the night of 26/11

When sleep didn’t crawl into our eyes,

We lie vacantly staring at the television,

Playing, playing, playing footage of burning Taj,

Trident exploding in gunshots and fire,

Stories of bravery and treachery,

That came from across the seas.

Lest we forget what happened that night

Washed away in a burst of tears in the gloomy night

When the sky above the Gateway was a smouldering black

And over Marine Drive hung the smell of death

Rich men paraded to their untimely end

And a child left without parents

And parents left without son

We mourned all this; still we forget

Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?

II

Victoria Terminus

The blood that stained this floor

Its sanguine past

Has been washed away

The huge cavern of V.T. station has been sanitised

The bullet-chipped granite has been replaced

That bloody night has been erased

From memory

From consciousness

From priorities.

Amnesic we plod

On granite floors smelling of disinfectant

Wondering where bombs will explode next.

Where will shrapnel enter soft flesh?

Where will cries echo in the night?

Where will the men and women be carried:

In trucks,

Handcarts,

Plastic sheets,

Stretchers,

Blood oozing from fresh wounds?

Could the surgeons stitch together?

The wounds inflicted by nails, ball bearings,

In the hearts and minds

Of the people they call brothers?

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me.

The Ladies Special Train

Saw stardom sprinkled this morning on a drab derelict platform


Rainbow colours, delicate features, sleep-swollen eyes, vivid dresses:

Salvar suits, chunris, ear rings, bangles, toe rings, bindis and stringed jasmine

And -- since it is raining -- variously coloured parasols and raincoats.


A bored voice on public address says there’s a Ladies Special Train passing by

Men, If you dare enter you risk being beaten, abused, it’s a Ladies’ Special Train

A whirl of colour, thunder of wheels, bursts of happy, determined faces, smiles

Knitting, mending, food smells and talks of disobedient children and declining education.


Children are pressurized, burdened, you know, we don’t know what they teach

They are making them into idiots, unoriginal thinkers, teaching them to conform

Our children will have the best; nonetheless, we will slog to work so they prosper

This corrupt political-business nexus, you know, has corrupted the education system.


It’s the happiest hour of the day, freedom from housework, while work waits

The times are bad, vegetable prices are high, groceries, oil and spices, too

Discounts are available in local malls and bulk purchases are advised

Careful, there are predatory men on platform, staring, whistling and cat calling.


There’s work in the office, corporate politics, a little time to exchange recipes

The bosses are increasingly intolerant and lewd, they make indecent remarks

They expect us to manage emails, make worksheets, presentations in no time

When we don’t have time to have lunch, even apply nail polish and makeup.


The morning Ladies Special Train is our special refuge, our peace haven, our space

From the cares of this world, from the stupid ogling men and their indecent gestures

This train may pass on bridges, through rain, violent storms, torrid heat

But inside the Ladies Special Train we know we are secure from the mad world outside.

(This is the poem I read at the event "100 Thousand Poets for Change" on 24th September 2011.)

Wounds That Do Not Heal

The doctor said you are nearly diabetic,


It is a condition that’s genetic,

Beware of wounds that do not heal,

Avoid spices and sugar in every meal.



My wounds are deeper, doctor dear

All you see are scars up here

Life has taught me wounds heal faster,

If you make forgiving a little easier.



I have travelled this continent far and wide,

Touched its boundaries on every side,

Shared spirits with men and women,

Told them of wounds and sins forgiven.



But, doctor the wounds that don’t heal are,

Wounds of juvenile dreams gone sour,

Look how they insult experience and age,

As if they would never see dotage!

Where Giant Mushrooms Grow!

In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow


One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show

That’s where they test how to vaporise people and flesh

By splitting and fusing atoms and starting the world afresh.


A new era, a new definition, will dawn with nuclear shields

Oh, how fresh are the huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields!

It can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks

Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.


They are making bullets, shields and missiles with lasers

That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers

Soldiers of the future won’t have to die for the country’s glory

They use their Global Positioning bullet, that’s another story.


Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line, futile windmill tilters

Your wars are lost even before you see victory, dissenters

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.


They say their soldiers are smart, they see in the dark

Their bullets can pierce armour; they can blast your flimsy mark

Where were you, soldiers of the mind, intellectuals, I mourn

When from your ceaseless toils such Frankensteins were born?


No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

I Want My Freedom

I know this world isn’t a friendly place
any more

I know I am not here ‘cos I don’t belong any longer

I know this ain’t my own complaint, no, it’s not true

I know you all feel the same; all are of my view.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want my music, I don’t want this noise

And this cacophony isn’t one of my joys

This petty fake piracy offends my freedom

I want my software free from officialdom

I want my freedom, I want a free world
I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want these killings to stop in our country

I want the world to stop this banditry

I want the bloodshed to end in your land

I want you to be free, please understand.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

Poem - Sandra from Bandra

She boards the 9.30 Bandra local

With fellow passengers she is quite vocal

Don’t you have eyes, can’t you see?

I am wearing my brand new saree?

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

She is late to work; “Oh these fisherwomen

They think they own the railway, yeah, men

“Just watch, I will teach them some manners

Let me get my foot in; fit in some corners."

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

That Katlik boy in office, Frank Furtado

Serenades her every day with a Fado

He is good-for-nothing, I tell her, he can’t jive

He can’t talk, he can’t sing, even to save his life.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

Can’t see you, I have to attend mass

Novenas, confessions, I have no time to pass

Not you, not Frank, no one except Prince Charles

Or, could be, Prince Williams, Prince Harry of Wales.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

(Originally written to be performed at the Bandra Festival, but, sadly, time and inclination didn’t permit.)

Poem: To The Loose Cannon (Dedicated to Manoj Rane)

Friend, my only regret is

Our coffee, which I will miss

Chatter and shared muffins

What’s this talk about coffins?

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I might’ve forgotten your birthdays

Or, failed to connect more on Facebook

A book in which for every friend you gain

You lose one and then make friends, again.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

Now that you are gone, I am back to the grind

But things about you still linger in the mind

You were so concerned, afraid of death

Oh! You should have held on to friendship and faith.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

I still think of you being so close as ever

A call away, not knowing you left for ever

Or your smile, your pique, or your laughter

Or, on lazy evenings, our shared idle chatter.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane

On the shores of a city where there’s no pain.

Till we meet again, Manoj Rane.

--------------

To my friend Manoj Rane, may his soul rest in peace.

The 8.30 a.m. Train Girl

Like ghosts passing by day and night

Each day we come into each other’s sight

In the train stations of our life

No sindoor; you aren’t anyone’s wife.

Talcum on your face, kohl-lined eyes

Bindi on forehead, a walk that defies

The world and its ways; all your needs:

A man, a bedroom, a kitchen, some threads.

In the search for this ersatz world

You don’t know why the world is cold

For your sweetness that never fails

You must suffer the men who cavil.

My advice: Beware of their devious ways

They rape with eyes, whistle their life away

They blackmail, lie, promise to say the vow

And then go looking for their wild oats to sow.

They would touch you in the crowd

Pinch where it hurts, make gestures crude

Or, stalk you, blank call you, write obscenities

In toilets, trains, anywhere they can print lies.

Through storms and floods your train must pass

Your phone’s no comfort, no, even in first class

No machine can help against nature’s fury

Even when tears make your sight turn blurry.

This 8.30 a.m. train’s a vile place to be

Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you, you’ll see

And when you are smarter, your world more settled

Remember this day, and the verse a fan composed.

The Cuckoo's Call

The cuckoo’s sweet serenade
Echoes everywhere this summer day
Perfidious, polygamous, promiscuous
They call you this not without reason
Despite your sweet soliloquy
You are a treacherous bird
Deceiving crows, ugly scavengers
Laying eggs in their naïve nests.

But I love your cadences
Echoing over the hills
Rising symphonic in the sky
In harmonious melodies
In summer’s stifling heat
When sweat pours and
The mind seeks respite.

Cuckoo, you sweet siren
The elusive Sylph
Ephemeral wanderer of the forests
If you deceive the crow and fly away
Would your children caw like the crow?
Or, sing the perfidious song of summer
In the valley of our habitation?

Barrel of the AK-47

This chunk of metal
This cold barrel
Can spit death
Sear flesh
Rend blood vessels
Splinter bones
Mutilate organs
Enter and exit bodies
Transform men
Into lifeless corpses.

Agreed
It can do all these
Plus avenge hurts
Spread hatred, fear,
Disrupt life
Make widows
Create orphans
Take entire nations hostage.

But can it bring justice?
I don’t know
Justice is a slow process
Full of hurled abuses
Debate and rhetoric
And hearing choked voices
Telling of people’s grief.

Those teenage armies
Destiny’s children
Slinging AK-47s
Posturing
As if they were John Rambo’s;
Do they know
Poor cannon fodder
That there’s an AK-47
Waiting around the corner
Nursed by another’s fingers
To end their dreams
Take them a step closer
To The End?

WELCOME TO KALA GHODA

You can get your portrait drawn here
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

This is where the writers hang out
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where there's art and there is music
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the food is tasty and tea is hot
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the samovar is always simmering
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where David Sassoon stands in the foyer
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where there’s Elphinston College and Watson Hotel
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Where the rich, poor, old, and young mingle
Welcome to Kala Ghoda

Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.

Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Welcome to Kala Ghoda
Where the tradition is old but the spirit is still young.